


The Light Fantastic

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Strictly Come Dancing Fusion, Based on a Tumblr Post, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Greg is very sweet, Greg the celebrity chef, M/M, Mycroft is an arrogant bastard, Mycroft the dancer, Nancy the pig, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: As an antidote to his grief, Greg Lestrade, former celebrity chef and restaurant owner, signs up to participate in Strictly Come Dancing for Children in Need. He's not really sure what to expect. At the worst, he'll learn to dance. At best, he might make a few new friends. However the sheer arrogance of one Mycroft Holmes, former principal dancer, makes Greg determined to beat him and prove he's not washed up after all. Is arrogance all Mycroft is hiding though?





	1. Chapter One.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a Tumblr post and I have to thank @wastingyourgum and @egmon73 for egging me on. That and the image of Greg Lestrade in a sparkly, skintight dance costume. Yum...

THE LIGHT FANTASTIC

Greg Lestrade took the lift to his agent’s office, taking the time to admire the view from the glass windows. He was pleased Sally was doing well enough for herself to afford a prime location like this.

In the reception area Greg was politely asked to wait as Ms Donovan was on a conference call. Greg declined the offer of refreshments, content just to sit patiently.

On one wall was a promotional poster for his last cookbook  _ Greg Flies East.  _ He found himself looking at a man three years younger who still retained some of the black in his hair and whose brown eyes were warm with affectionate amusement.

Greg was in possession of a mirror. He knew he didn't look like that any more. The photo had been taken just before Kit died, taking Greg's happiness with him. Could you consider yourself a widower if you hadn't been married? Greg rather thought you could, especially since what he and Kit had shared seemed to transcend conventional mores.

He didn't want to think about Kit. Not today. He just wanted to hear Sally out, decline every offer she made and get home. He was halfway through a boxset of  _ The West Wing  _ and it had him utterly enthralled.

He didn't have to wait long. Sally barged out of her own office, spotted him and beamed. Greg got to his feet and they kissed each other on the cheek.

Greg adored her. She had been his agent ever since his first TV appearance. They had both come a long way from him presenting  _ Dining Disasters  _ and she working from one room in Peckham, now she dressed in Dior and had a client list that was the envy of everyone in the business.

Yet to him, she was still the same old Sally, taking his hand and dragging him along with her, talking at a hundred miles an hour.

“Sit,” she insisted. “I'll get us some coffee.”

Even though he had already said no, Greg let her get on with it and her assistant quickly appeared with a cafitiére of fresh coffee. There was even a plate of fresh biscuits and Greg dug in with gusto. 

“How's the family?” Greg asked, dunking his fourth HobNob in his coffee. “I bet Philip's pleased they're back at school.”

“That man is an absolute saint,” said Sally of her husband. “Lily and Oliver just about had him demented this summer. You need to come over more. They'll have forgotten what you look like.”

“I know. I'm a lousy godfather. It's just…” Greg flailed, unable to find the right words.

“Uh huh. Okay, but you can come over anytime.”

“So you said you had some tempting offers for me?” Greg asked, trying to deflect.

Sally brightened and scrabbled among the papers on her desk.

“One or two. Collins is offering six figures for your autobiography.”

“No. Next.”

“There's a new programme starting on the BBC about living more healthily. They're looking for a chef to teach people how to cook properly.”

Greg visibly winced.

“Not really my thing. Teaching people to cook, yes. On telly, absolutely not.”

Sally huffed and then the most wicked smile he had seen on her face for a very long time appeared.

“How about something fun?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah. I know you haven't had a good time since.dinosaurs roamed the Earth, Greg, but you need to become more visible. It's been three years since you were on TV and people are terribly fickle. It won't be too long before someone asks you ‘Didn't you use to be Greg Lestrade?’ 

“I don't care about that,” said Greg huffily. “The restaurant is about to get its second Michelin star and my books are still selling well.”

“For now. If you do this, your sales will skyrocket and your restaurant will be booked out for months in advance.”

“Temptress. You do know we're already fully booked till the end of October? So what's this fun thing then?”

“Strictly Come Dancing for Children In Need.”

“Very funny. Now be serious.”

“I  _ am _ being serious, Greg. The producers asked for you specifically.”

Sally waved the email printout at him like a flag. He snatched it off her.

“Christ, you weren't kidding. One small problem. I can't dance. And I can't leave the Spoilt Pig for weeks on end, it's not fair on the staff.”

“Bollocks. I've seen you shimmy when you get the topping perfect on a creme brulee so don't tell me you haven't got moves. And it won't be for weeks on end. There's a boot camp then four pre-recorded episodes before the final.”

Sally grew serious and leaned closer across the desk.

“Greg, you're turning into a hermit. I know how much you loved Kit but you're not doing yourself one single favour by hiding in your flat all the time watching telly and drinking yourself to sleep when you're not busting your hump at the restaurant. This will be perfect for you. It'll get you out, you'll meet new people. You'll even learn to foxtrot.”

Greg hung his head. She knew him far too well. And she was right. It was time to cast off the sackcloth and ashes and if that meant making a prat of himself on telly in front of millions of people then so be it.

“Okay, I'll do it.”

“Seriously? Oh, that's brilliant!”

“Just one thing. I've never actually seen the programme. Can you get me some copies of a few, just so I've got an idea?”

“I'll send them over today. Oh, just wait till I tell the kids Uncle Greg's going to be on  _ Strictly.” _

Greg moaned and covered his face with his hands.

*

The train pulled into the station and Greg got off, picking up his car from the Park and Ride car park. He despised driving in London but here in the countryside it was a necessity. He drove along leafy lanes and twisty roads till he turned into the car park of the Spoilt Pig.

His restaurant was a former piggery and it retained its rural charm as well as one original sty which housed Nancy, after who the restaurant was named.

Greg got out of his car and walked over to the sty. Seeing her friend, the huge sow lumbered to her feet and came over to him, nudging his hand as he scratched her behind the ears and grunting softly in pleasure.

“Hello, darling.” said Greg. “Looks like I'm going to be busy for the next little while, so we won't have as many long talks. I'll bring you an apple next time.”

He smiled as Nancy collapsed theatrically in the straw.

The restaurant was closed and the staff were tucking into their lunches as Greg walked in.

“Anything left?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course, Chef. Ravioli and garlic bread suit you?”

“Perfect.” Greg looked at John Watson, his sous-chef. “Can we have a word, John, before you start prepping for dinner?”

“Yeah, of course. Everything okay, boss?”

“Lunch first. And it's nothing to worry about.”

Greg sat at the table with his staff and tucked into a steaming bowlful of ravioli stuffed with goat's cheese and sundried tomatoes, mopping up the exquisite sauce with hunks of bread dripping with garlic butter.

“Gorgeous,” he pronounced and everyone smiled.

Greg took John into the tiny office and said “I'm going to be doing something else for a few weeks. Can you take over as head chef until I'm done?”

John straightened up and smiled, thrilled at the opportunity.

“Of course, boss. We're fully booked for a while but no one's on holiday or anything and you're not starting the winter menu till November, so there shouldn't be a problem.”

“Good. I'll make sure all the staff get a little something extra for being inconvenienced. And you get paid accordingly, John. “

“Fair enough. What are you going to be doing?”

“Sally has signed me up for  _ Strictly Come Dancing.” _

“My mum loves that programme,” said John. “I wonder who your partner will be?”

Amazed that John wasn't rolling around on the floor with laughter, Greg shrugged.

“No idea. Just hold the fort until I get back, yeah?”

“No problem, boss.” John replied.

*

Greg ejected the  _ Strictly Come Dancing  _ DVD from the machine, quickly replacing it with the second disc of  _ The West Wing. _ He was utterly horrified. It was worse than the Christians versus the lions. And the Lycra. And the body glitter. Not to mention the fake tan. Why in the name of sanity had he agreed to this?

*

The following week found Greg, along with five other celebrities, in a rehearsal studio somewhere in London. He recognised Gaz Wheatley, the former Premier League footballer, and Irene Adler, the children's novelist. He had also been introduced to Mike Stamford, the jovial breakfast TV presenter, Stella Hopkins, the former medal-winning heptathlete and Elise Martin, a former Blue Peter presenter. They were a happy, if somewhat nervous bunch, standing around sipping coffee and chatting and trying very hard not to think about what they'd let themselves in for.

One of the showrunners appeared and announced that their dance partners would be joining them shortly. The girl looked apologetically at Irene and said.

“Miss Adler, I'm sorry to tell you that Anton has injured his back and won't be available. We do have a superb substitute for you though. You will be partnered with Mycroft Holmes.”

Apparently that was either a good thing or a bad thing, judging by the others reactions. Greg thought he should probably have done a little bit more research on the dancers themselves instead of worrying about dying on his arse.

The young woman then read from her list of other dance partners until she came to Greg.

“Mr Lestrade, your partner will be Molly Hooper. Right, I'll go and fetch them and you can get acquainted. Proper rehearsals start tomorrow at eight sharp.”

She returned quickly, closely followed by six other people and Greg was approached by a young woman with long dark hair and a pretty elfin face.

“You're Greg Lestrade.”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied with a smile. “Are you Molly Hooper?”

“Yes. It's lovely to meet you in person. I'm a big fan of your cookbooks. And I loved the stuff you did on Asia.”

“Thanks. I'm flattered.”

She grinned and Greg found himself liking her very much.

“So, how good a teacher are you?” Greg asked.

“Very good. I trained with the Royal Ballet and I've worked in musical theatre for years as well as teaching.”

“Good because I've got two left feet.”

“Don't worry, Greg. I'll get you there. As long as we beat Mycroft Holmes, I'll be happy.”

Greg glanced at the man she had gestured at.

He was standing with his arms folded, a supercilious smile playing on his thin lips and making absolutely no effort to engage with his hapless partner. His auburn hair was ruthlessly slicked back and his blue eyes held no warmth at all.

“Bit of an arrogant sod, isn't he?” asked Greg. He disliked the man on sight.

“You think he's arrogant now?” laughed Molly, but there was no amusement in it. “Just wait till we start the competition.”

“Wonderful,” said Greg grimly. “Can't wait.”

TBC.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents, bad food and rivalry. Whoever said ballroom dancing was glamorous?

_ Boot Camp Day 1 _

  
  


Greg sighed with relief as he caught sight of John's trusty old Fiat as it pulled into the drop-off zone of the train station.

 

Greg got in and glared at his sous chef.

 

“Not a word, Watson. I mean it or you'll be working in McDonald's next week.”

 

John gave him a look of injured innocence that was fooling no one.

 

“Who me boss? Why would I tell  _ anyone  _ you fell asleep on the train and only woke up when it got to the end of the line? Seriously, is it that exhausting?”

 

Greg replied with a redolent snore. He had fallen asleep again.

 

John grinned to himself and put the car into gear for the trip back to the Spoilt Pig.

 

_ Boot Camp Day 2 _

 

“Bollocks.”

 

Not the most auspicious thing to say first thing in the morning but Greg didn't care.

 

He rolled out of bed after silencing his alarm and groaned aloud as he straightened up. Even his eyebrows hurt and he didn't think that was physically possible.

 

Greg got in the shower and let the scalding hot water pummel some of the soreness out of his aching muscles. It was ridiculous, he thought. He had always considered himself to be reasonably fit, running a busy kitchen and being on his feet most of the day saw to that as well as regular jogging and the odd game of tennis when he could be arsed but other realisations were starting to seep in.

 

He wasn't young any more and he had taken to delegating more and more to his army of kitchen staff claiming he needed to concentrate on the business side when it was really an excuse to lose himself in Shiraz and Maltesers. And he hasn't run since he lost Kit.

 

He studied himself critically in the full length bedroom mirror and frowned. His six pack was now a keg, complete with handles and there was one more chin there than Nature intended.

 

“Needs work, Greg you fat bastard.” he told his reflection.

 

He hitched a lift with John to the train station then changed his mind theorising that if he had to concentrate on driving to and from the rehearsals then he might not fall asleep. He reclaimed his car and drove to the rehearsal rooms.

 

*

Mycroft considered himself suitably warmed up so he had a chance to cast a surreptitious eye over the competition. He smirked to himself as he saw that the so-called celebrities, with the exception of the two former professional athletes, were out of breath and sweating. 

 

Mycroft considered it payback for all the years of people telling him that ballet and dance weren't for  _ real  _ men. Since the age of five he had disciplined himself to be the very best he could be, since Uncle Rudy had discovered his passion for dance and nurtured it, and had been rewarded with a stellar career and a lithe and graceful form even in retirement.

 

He watched Mike Stamford apologise yet again for treading on his partner’s toes and her subsequent laughter as he took Irene’s hand in his, his other hand perfectly positioned on her back.

 

She was the perfect study, he thought. Incredibly quick to learn with an instinctive grasp of rhythm that held great promise for refinement. Better, she saw it as a real competition and wanted to prove herself. Together they were a lethal combination.

 

The sound of a collision followed by helpless laughter distracted Mycroft and he looked over to where Greg Lestrade was helping Molly Hooper to her feet.

 

Mycroft had been ready to despise the man but, to his private horror, Greg Lestrade had nothing about him to despise. Certainly not his twinkly-eyed middle-aged charm or his broad shoulders and muscular arms that held Molly during practice as if she were made of spun glass. 

 

_ This would be so much easier if I could despise you  _ thought Mycroft despairingly.

 

*

 

_ Boot Camp Day 4 _

 

Greg picked up one of the sandwiches that had been supplied by the event caterers at lunchtime, pulled it apart and grimaced.

 

“This is awful,” he pronounced. “You can't expect people to perform at their best on…” he brandished the offending sandwich. “ _ This.” _

 

“It's not so bad,” mumbled Gaz, ploughing his way through wafer thin ham and plastic cheese.

 

“It really is,” argued Stella. “But we don't have a lot of options, do we? It's coming out of the BBC budget and we all know how tight that is.”

 

“What do you suggest, Mr Lestrade?” That was Mycroft.

 

Greg scowled as the man looked down his patrician nose at him.

 

“I can't eat any of it even if I wanted to,” Greg protested. “It's all meat and fish. And I'm buggered if Pret A Manger is getting any more of my money this week. Tomorrow I'll provide the lunch.” He glared directly at Mycroft as he added. “Feel free to opt out. “

 

The others looked at Mycroft oddly but he merely shrugged.

 

*

 

_ Boot Camp Day 5 _

 

Greg loaded his car with plastic containers and tinfoil wrapped food and headed back to London. He had been up since four and John would have a minor coronary when he saw the havoc Greg had wreaked on the restaurant supplies but Greg reckoned it was worth it to give the people he was becoming friends with a taste of some proper food. And the chance to wipe that superior smirk off Mycroft Holmes’s face.

 

“Yeah, he knows his rhumba from his elbow,” Greg muttered, clenching the steering wheel as he joined the M25.”But I bet he knows fuck all about cooking.”

 

A warm smile was all it took to enlist the help of one of the interns in unloading and storing the stuff until lunchtime.

 

Later, with a muttered apology to Molly, Greg slipped away and set everything up, returning with a very broad grin and the announcement that lunch was served.

 

“This looks incredible!” Molly exclaimed and the others were quick to agree. Feather-light quiches jostled for space with freshly-baked bread,salads, crudites, dips and plates of stuffed wraps. Everyone dug in while Greg watched contentedly. This is what made him happier than anything. Feeding people and watching them enjoy what he had created. He nibbled on a halloumi and sweet chilli wrap while watching everyone's delighted expressions as they tried new tastes and textures, Gaz hoovering up the baba ganoush like he'd never see food again and Mike returning over and over again to the hummus while Stella, Molly and Katya chatted while tucking into crushed avocado on sourdough bread.

 

When no one could manage another mouthful, Mike led everyone in a chorus of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow.” which made Greg smile.

 

As he and Molly practised later she said.

 

“You are one hell of a cook, Greg. Did you do all that yourself?”

 

“Yes. I even baked the bread.”

 

“Wow. I mean I've seen you cook on telly but that was something else.”

 

Greg laughed softly as they reversed.

 

“You should come down to the Spoilt Pig one night and I'll cook for you.”

 

Molly looked wary.

 

“I'm really flattered, Greg, but I've got a partner and…”

 

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I wasn't coming on to you,” Greg reassured her with a squeeze of his hand. “I love cooking for people who appreciate good food. Bring your partner. In fact…”

 

Greg's grin got even wider as the idea he had just had expanded.

 

“I'll invite everyone down. Y'know to celebrate the end of boot camp. Partners included. It'll be fun.”

 

“What a lovely idea,” replied Molly, her eyes sparkling. “Jim will love it. He's my partner. He's a maths teacher and a night out somewhere special like that would do us both a power of good. Will you ask Mycroft?” she added, a devilish twinkle in her eyes.

 

“I suppose so,” huffed Greg. “I've got two Michelin stars, that should be good enough for the snooty git. Why?”

 

“Oh, it's just I think he'd accept even if you ran a burger van. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off you.”

 

“Probably waiting for me to fall on my arse again,” muttered Greg. “Let's practice that middle bit again. I think I'm a beat or two behind.”

 

*

 

_ Boot Camp Day 14 _

 

The rehearsal room resounded with the loudest scream Greg had ever heard. He turned to see Elise on the floor clutching her ankle while her dance partner knelt beside her, a stricken expression on his face.

 

Everyone rushed over and it was Gaz who gently palpated the injured limb and sat back on his heels looking concerned.

 

“Get an ambulance,” he said as Elise moaned in agony, and tears streamed down her face. “I think it's broken.” Gaz continued, looking solemn. No one doubted him as he had probably seen many similar injuries on the football pitch.

 

Greg was the first to get to his mobile and dialled 999. He gave the operator precise details then hung up and joined the others clustered around Elise.

 

“Won't be long,” he said. “Though breaking your leg is supposed to be a metaphorical thing, isn't it?”

 

Elise laughed despite her obvious pain and the others grinned.

 

“Can I ring someone for you?” Greg offered. “Tell them what's happened?”

 

“My mum,” said Elise and rattled off a number. As Greg made the call the paramedics arrived assessed Elise and whisked her away.

 

“St Thomas’s. That's right. Yes. Goodbye.”

 

Greg ended the call and looked at the others who all looked shocked and bemused except for Molly and Katya who were comforting Elise’s devastated partner.

 

The producer came hurtling in and sent them all home with the proviso that they returned tomorrow and it was a subdued group that collected their stuff and left.

 

Greg was waiting in the queue to leave the car park when he saw Mycroft Holmes on his mobile gesticulating wildly then hanging up and looking crushed. Greg pulled up beside him and lowered his window.

 

“You okay?” Greg asked.

 

“Not really,” admitted Mycroft. “I'm supposed to be staying with my brother this weekend and the car I ordered to take me has been cancelled. I can't get another because it's Friday night and Sherlock lives in the middle of nowhere.”

 

“Whereabouts?” Greg asked.

 

“Cliffords Mesne. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd never heard of it either.”

 

“It's not too far from me,” admitted Greg. “Get it, I'll give you a lift.”

 

Mycroft looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

 

“Either that or you stay here till Monday. Your choice.” said Greg evenly.

 

Reluctantly Mycroft opened the passenger door and got it, tucking his long legs into the footwell and putting his weekend bag in the back seat next to Greg's tatty holdall.

 

“Thank you,” he muttered. Greg grinned to himself.

 

TBC

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A car journey turned confessional as Greg and Mycroft discover new things about the other.

The traffic was slow moving as Greg headed through London and the road home and came to a complete halt ten minutes in.

 

“Now what?” Greg muttered.

 

“God knows,” replied Mycroft. “This is one very good reason for not having a car in London. You can never get anywhere. And unless you have a hybrid the congestion charge is appalling.”

 

“Yup,” replied Greg. “I've noticed. I mean I've heard all the jokes about Chelsea Tractors but if you live out in the sticks, you need reliable transport.”

 

“Quite.”

 

A not uncomfortable silence fell between them and Greg switched on the radio.

 

Instead of the rock music Mycroft was expecting, Handel’s ‘Water Music’ emerged from the speakers which was a pleasant surprise. Greg's fingers tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel and he hummed along.

 

“That was the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra conducted by Simon Shaw.” said the announcer helpfully. Mycroft snorted. 

 

Greg looked sideways at him.

 

“Not a fan of Handel then?” Greg asked.

 

“Handel, yes. Shaw, not so much.”

 

“You know him?” Greg asked curiously.

 

“Only through the wailing and gnashing of teeth of Sherlock. He believes Shaw to be the most arrogant man to ever draw breath.”

 

There was a tender, amused note in Mycroft's voice as he said it and Greg risked a side glance at the man who was smiling. Actually smiling.

 

“Who's Sherlock?” Greg asked.

 

“My brother. We rarely see each other these days as he's usually in another time zone. That's why this weekend is so important.”

 

Greg acknowledged that with a nod.

 

“Is he a dancer too?” he asked.

 

“No, he's a musician. The leader of the LSO.”

 

Greg was impressed despite himself. This Sherlock must be one hell of a fiddle player.

 

“Do you have any siblings, Greg?”

 

“No, just me.”

 

“Consider yourself fortunate. My brother and I have a...a complicated relationship.”

 

Mycroft shut up. What on Earth was he doing? Spilling all his secrets like some over-eager teenager desperate to impress his crush? 

 

“That's gotta suck,” said Greg mildly. “There's a lot to be said for the family we make for ourselves. Friends. Co-workers. That sort of thing.”

 

“I wouldn't know,” said Mycroft which effectively killed the conversation stone dead. 

 

The traffic began to move, albeit slowly and Mycroft stared, unseeing, out of the window as the city slipped by. Desperately he tried to think of another topic of conversation. Greg was doing him a huge favour, the very least Mycroft could do was  _ talk  _ to the man.

 

“Do you have anything nice planned for the weekend?” seemed a reasonable start. To his relief Greg chuckled.

 

“Depends on how you define ‘nice'. We're catering a wedding tomorrow which is always good fun and it's a lot less stressful for my staff than dinner service.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The menu only runs to three starters, mains and puddings, so all I need to do is make sure the drink doesn't run out. Normal dinner service, well, anyone can ask for anything. It keeps you on your toes.”

 

“I see. You won't have much time for yourself though.”

 

“I’ll still have time for reading. There’s nothing nicer than curling up on the sofa with a glass of red and a good book. Or some decent telly. Might get to watch the end of  _ The West Wing. _ And Nancy will be in the huff with me for neglecting her.”

 

“Your wife? Girlfriend?” asked Mycroft, his heart sinking. Of course someone as incredible as Greg Lestrade was spoken for. For the first time Mycroft regretted not doing some research on his fellow competitors.

 

Greg laughed again, a rich deep chuckle.

 

“Neither. She’s a Gloucester Old Spot. A pig.” he explained, taking in Mycroft’s confused expression. “I’ve had her since she was a piglet and the restaurant is named after her.”

 

“Oh. I see.” Mycroft could feel his face heating up with embarrassment.

 

“She’s the only woman ever likely to be in my life. I was planning on having everyone and their partners down at the end of boot camp for a bit of a celebration. You could meet her then.”

 

“That would be very nice, Greg. Unfortunately I don’t have a partner to bring.”

 

Greg risked another look at his passenger who was both defiant and mortified.

 

_ You’re not arrogant at all  _ Greg thought.  _ You’re incredibly, painfully shy. I bet you are full of treasures, Mycroft Holmes, if only you’d let the right person close enough to discover them. _

 

“That’s okay, neither do I. Come anyway. The food will be superb.”

 

_ Now who’s being arrogant? _

 

“Very well then.”

 

“Good. How long has your brother lived in the village?”

 

“A couple of years. He went through a bad break-up or so the gossip columns said, and needed to get away from London.”

 

“You’re not at all close if you had to hear that through a third party,” said Greg shrewdly.

 

Mycroft sighed heavily but Greg was deceptively easy to talk to and he doubted very much that Greg would spill any of his secrets.

 

“Sherlock is seven years younger than me. Our parents...well, the less said about them the better. However at the time that he could have done with the support and guidance of his big brother, I was in Russia training with the Bolshoi. He never really forgave me for abandoning him. Our uncle was the man to foster and encourage our talents. Sherlock was a prodigy. It’s only right he should have had the best opportunities.”

 

_ While you were stuck in a country whose language you didn’t speak with no friends and no parental support, surviving on your one talent that could be taken from you with a single misstep. No wonder you’re fucked up. _

 

Greg indicated to take the slip road off the M25. They would be there very shortly.

 

“At least you are still speaking to each other. That's something.” said Greg out loud.

 

“A small comfort. I must say, your dancing has improved immeasurably since the first day.”

 

“It couldn’t have been much worse. And I’ve got an excellent teacher.”

 

“It will soon be time for the costume fittings. If I were you, Greg, I’d leave your dignity at the door and pick it back up on the way out.”

 

Greg spluttered with laughter and glanced at his passenger who was looking suspiciously smug.

 

“Give over. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

 

“You’ll see. If the costume designer suggests getting waxed, decline politely.”

 

“Getting what waxed? My legs?” Greg was genuinely confused.

 

“Think higher,” teased Mycroft.

 

“No way.” said Greg firmly, wincing at the very thought.”I don’t mind spray tan and glitter but I refuse to have anyone near my bits with hot wax.”

 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, he just grinned.

 

The next half hour of travel was filled with light conversation but Greg felt saddened that a man such as Mycroft knew so little about popular culture. He was terribly single-minded and admitted the last time he had been to the cinema was to see  _ Black Swan _ and had criticised it all the way through.

 

“Were you never asked to be a judge on  _ Masterchef _ ?” asked Mycroft.

 

“No, I wouldn’t do it ever if I were asked.”

 

“May I ask why?”

 

“I can’t stand the two idiots who present it for starters. Plus I’m a strict vegetarian, Mycroft. I wouldn’t be able to sample most of whatever the contestants cooked up.”

 

“I see. A man of principal.” He sounded approving.

 

“We’re here,” said Greg. Mycroft was startled. The time had just flown without him realising. “Which house is your brother’s?”

 

“The one beside the church,” said Mycroft. Greg pulled in and put on the handbrake.

 

“See you Monday. Waltz time.”

 

“You manage the cha cha with aplomb, Greg. You’ll have no trouble with the waltz. Thank you again for giving me a lift.” said Mycroft warmly.

 

“No problem. Don’t forget your bag. Goodnight.”

 

Mycroft stood on the pavement and watched the taillights of Greg’s Land Rover disappear before grabbing his bag and walking up the path to Sherlock’s cottage.

 

*

 

Greg poured himself a big glass of red wine and sat with his laptop on his knee, looking through YouTube. 

 

“I wonder if you’re on here?” he murmured to himself.

 

His search revealed a string of videos and he clicked on the first one. It was grainy in quality but watchable. The ballerinas flitted round the stage like colourful butterflies before the prima ballerina made her entrance. Then  _ he _ came on.

 

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Greg, gulping at the wine in his glass.

 

Grainy or not, the principal was clearly Mycroft, his auburn hair and lean frame were unmistakable, but Greg was utterly mesmerized by the elegance and grace of Mycroft’s performance. He seemed to float around the stage as if gravity were a force for lesser beings and he held up the prima ballerina as if she weighed less than nothing.

 

This was Mycroft in his prime and Greg was all admiration. And not a little desire. He continued watching until all the videos were done and Greg was in need of more wine. Or a quick wank. He couldn’t decide. 

 

What he  _ did  _ decide was that he wanted to know Mycroft Holmes a whole lot better.

  
  


TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costume fittings and mentions of hot wax make Greg wonder when he's going to have time to pursue his interest in Mycroft.

Greg and John took a minute to peek out of the kitchen door to where the wedding party was in full swing; the restaurant decked out in streamers and bunting while the three-tiered wedding cake took pride of place in the corner.

 

All the guests and the bride and groom looked happy and the majority of the plates had come back to the kitchen scraped clean, so Greg counted that as a big win.

 

“Go home, John. I can finish up in here. Anya will help with the tidying-up.”

 

“Ok, boss. Might see if I can catch last orders at the Anglers. See you tomorrow.”

 

John got into his street clothes and was out the door before Greg could change his mind and Greg smiled to himself as he started to load one of the dishwashers.

 

Music from the band filtered through to the kitchen and Greg hummed along. The happy couple might be ridiculously young in his eyes but they had chosen some timeless music for their reception. Greg turned on the dishwasher with a flick of his wrist and, grabbing the kitchen mop, waltzed his way across the floor to the strains of ‘When I Fall In Love.”

 

“Still needs practice,” he chided himself as he piled more plates and cutlery into the second dishwasher. He switched it on and his mobile rang.

 

“Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Mr Lestrade it's Lesley from the  _ Strictly _ production department. I've been asked to ring you as there's been a slight alteration to next week's schedule.”

 

“Oh. How do you mean?” Greg asked. He had been sort of looking forward to learning to waltz properly with Molly.

 

“Nothing too major but you need to attend the wardrobe department Monday morning at nine for your fitting.”

 

“Fitting?”

 

“For the clothes you'll be wearing on the show. Then there will be a few publicity shots as we reveal you all to the press.”

 

“Right.” Greg wondered why he felt nervous all of a sudden. “Nine o'clock you say?”

 

“Yes. Goodnight.”

 

Greg was left with a silent phone in his hand as one of the waitresses crashed through the kitchen door laden with more washing-up.

 

Once everyone had left and he and Anya had cleaned up, Greg drove her home. When he returned to the restaurant, he parked the car and got out. It was a perfect autumn evening, crisp and clear and Greg's feet led him, as they so often did, to Nancy’s sty. 

 

She squealed with pleasure when she saw him and devoured the apple he gifted her with in two bites, resting the top half of her considerable bulk on the sty wall so Greg could scratch her behind the ears.

 

“Well, darling. Got to get fitted for my dance costumes on Monday. I dunno, do you think I'll look good in Lycra? Or will I look like a sad old man trying too hard. I bet Mycroft looks good in Lycra. I know he looks stunning in ballet tights.”

 

Greg sighed and Nancy grunted, angling her head so Greg could scratch her some more.

 

“I think you'd like him. You might get the chance to meet him next week. Him and everyone else in the competition. Anyway, lovely talking to you as always. Night, love.”

 

*

 

Greg arrived at the wardrobe department just before nine on the Monday morning to be met by a tiny bird-like woman who appraised him from behind a pair of gold pince-nez glasses.

 

“Mr Lestrade? I'm Martha Hudson the  _ Strictly  _ wardrobe mistress.”

 

“Lovely to meet you,” he said as they shook hands. “Please, call me Greg.”

 

“Come with me then, Greg. We're just waiting for Mr Wheatley.”

 

Greg was familiar with the television make-up department but he had never needed to use the wardrobe. He felt his jaw drop open at the sight of rack apon rack of sequinned and feathered outfits in every colour of the rainbow and wondered which ones he would have the misfortune to wear.

 

Mike Stamford was already there and waved to Greg but they didn't get a chance to talk before they were whisked off to separate rooms and Greg found himself under Mrs Hudson’s expert scrutiny.

 

“Strip down to your underwear, Greg.” she said. “Don't worry, dear, you haven't got anything I haven't seen before. I'll be back in a minute.”

 

Greg did as he was told, feeling like a right clot in standing there in his socks and boxers and was quite pleased when Mrs Hudson bustled back in.

 

He submitted to her taking his measurements up to and including his inside leg.

 

“Do you dress to the left or right?”

 

“Left,” Greg said, blushing. “Though why that should matter I don't know.”

 

Mrs Hudson chuckled as she put away her tape measure.

 

“Trust me, Greg. Some of the outfits are so tight you could tell if you're a cavalier or a roundhead. Now, which four dances are you doing?”

 

“Waltz, rumba, foxtrot and tango. Assuming we're not voted off in the first five minutes.”

 

“I doubt that. The judges are a lot more lenient when it's for Children In Need. And Molly is a superb dancer. I bet she's taught you a thing or two.”

 

Greg scowled at her nudge-nudge-wink-wink expression but she ignored him.

 

“Okay. Stay put and I'll find you something suitable for each dance. Plus you'll need a suit for the photo shoot and press junket. Hmmm. You'll look stunning in scarlet and emerald.”

 

She returned before Greg could have any more misgivings, her arms full of brightly coloured fabric.

 

“Try this on, “ she said absently, handing him a shirt and a pair of trousers in shimmering green.

 

Greg put them on and looked at himself in the mirror.

 

“Blimey!” he exclaimed, repressing the urge to cackle. The shirt had no buttons and was split to the navel while the trousers...well…

 

“You can forget about wearing your usual underwear,” cautioned Mrs Hudson. “They'll ruin the line. Either do without or invest in a thong. Or you could always get waxed.” Greg visibly winced. “No? I would still recommend a chest wax. It'll help when they put on the spray tan. I must say, that colour really suits you. That's a definite then. Now, how about these…”

 

An hour later Greg staggered out of the changing room wearing a very sharp suit, bottle green shirt and tie all topped off with a fedora. Mike and Gaz were waiting for him, all looking equally shell-shocked and impeccably dressed.

 

“We're meeting the girls downstairs in ten minutes.” Gaz explained.

 

“I've been told I should get a chest wax,” said Mike. “The lady that did my fitting said so. She seemed to think I was too hairy. Funny the wife's never complained.”

 

“I was told that too,” admitted Greg. “But I dunno.”

 

“It's not as bad as it sounds,” Gaz added. “I get waxed regular. Chest, back, sack and crack.”

 

The two other men cringed at the very thought. 

 

“What's it like?” Greg asked, morbidly curious.

 

“Chest is okay but the rest hurts like a bastard. “ Gaz admitted. “That said, you end up lovely and smooth, though your bits do tend to look like the last chicken in Sainsburys.”

 

“I think I'll pass,” said Greg. “Although a chest wax doesn't sound  _ too _ bad.”

 

“It doesn't.” agreed Mike.

 

“I'll ring up and see if my waxer can fit you both in, shall I?” Gaz asked, digging out his mobile. “The competition filming starts next week so everything should have settled down by then.”

 

“Will you hold my hand?” Mike murmured as Gaz made the call.

 

“Only if you hold mine.” Greg muttered. Then they looked at each other and giggled.

 

“Tomorrow afternoon, after practice.” Gaz announced. Thank me later.”

 

“Best get down there,” said Greg, checking his watch. “They'll be waiting.”

 

*.

 

The rest of the group were clustered round the front doors, chatting or checking their phones. Molly came up to Greg and grinned at his astonished expression.

 

“You look incredible!” he exclaimed.

 

She did with her long dark hair piled up in ringlets, her peacock blue costume showed off all her attributes and still managed to look classy and her legs looked endless in the three-inch heels she was wearing.

 

“You look great too,” she added with a smile. “Oh, we're up.”

 

The doors opened and, hand in hand with their partners, they went to meet the press.

 

Greg was used to publicity, in fact the only ones who looked uncomfortable being in the limelight were Irene and Mycroft.

 

Greg tried not to stare when he saw him but couldn't help himself. In unadorned black which fitted him like a second skin, Mycroft stood out among the rainbow of other colours.

 

Greg also noticed the quickly-concealed look of interest from Mycroft and he smiled to himself.

 

They hadn't had a chance to talk since that memorable car ride, something Greg planned to remedy soon.

 

Until then, he smiled and held Molly’s hand, answering a hundred vapid questions and wondered how to bring about thawing Mycroft Holmes. 

 

TBC

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the start of filming approaches, tension rises, dinner invites are confirmed and unspeakable deeds are done in pristine rooms.

_ Pain. Indescribable pain as though his heart was being ripped out and this torture was being given by the most inoffensive-looking person he had ever seen. He couldn't help himself, every new wave of agony made him curse like a Dutch bargee and when the area round his oversensitive nipples became involved, he screamed. _

 

_ His cry was echoed by the other person suffering the torture of the damned. The logical part of his mind knew it had been mere minutes, yet it seemed to last for a drawn-out eternity.  _

 

Then, abruptly, it stopped. Soothing lotion was rubbed into his abused flesh and Greg finally plucked up the courage to open his eyes.

 

The beauty therapist grinned down at him as he lay, panting heavily, on the table.

 

“All done,” she said brightly.

 

Greg sat up, feeling more than a little ashamed.

 

“Thank you. Er, I'm sorry for the language there.”

 

She laughed and patted him.playfully on the arm.

 

“Don't worry about it, I've heard a lot worse. Especially if it's a man's more delicate areas. They're terribly protective of their bits.”

 

Greg looked down at his newly-waxed chest. It looked like he had a mild case of sunburn but it did look incredibly smooth.

 

“The redness will go away shortly,” she advised him. “Avoid using anything perfumed for 48 hours and nothing too tight as you might chafe.”

 

Greg winced. He got off the table and pulled on his, thankfully baggy, shirt.

 

The therapist followed him out into the reception area where a pale-faced Mike was waiting.

 

“Are you okay?” Greg asked.

 

“I watched my wife give birth twice,” said Mike with a shudder. “Now I've got an idea of the pain she went through. You all right?”

 

“Yup.”

 

As he put his card in the machine to pay, the therapist smiled shyly at him and said.

 

“I'm a huge fan of yours, Mr Lestrade. Would you sign this for me?”

 

“Happy to,” said Greg with a grin as she produced a copy of  _ Greg Flies South. _ “What's your name?”

 

“Gina.”

 

Greg signed his name and a small dedication with a flourish and handed her back the book and pen.

 

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes shining. “I hope you win.”

 

“He's got a better chance than me,” said Mike benevolently. “Katya is amazing but I'm hopeless.”

 

“Watch out for the Curse of  _ Strictly, _ ” warned Gina.

 

Both men looked baffled so she hastened to explain.

 

“Entering the contest is supposed to put a strain on the strongest of relationships because you spend so much time up close and personal with your dance partner. The tabloids are usually full of it.”

 

Greg snorted in amusement while Mike cackled.

 

“Katya is young enough to be my daughter, pet.” Mike said, wiping his eyes. “And even if she wasn't, something tells me she'd find me all too easy to resist. Little fat Geordies aren't her style.”

 

“Her loss,” smiled Gina. “I love your accent.” Mike blushed.

 

“I'd actually need to be in a relationship for Molly to wreck it,” laughed Greg. “She's not my type anyway.”

 

“She's lovely!” Gina protested.

 

“She is. Clever, beautiful, talented and considerate. Also spoken for and exactly one penis short of being perfect for me.”

 

Mike snorted with laughter and Greg smiled. They took their leave of Gina and her workmates and retired to the nearest pub.

 

They had barely made it through the door before he and Mike were being asked for autographs and selfies. Eventually they made it to the bar, collected their drinks and sat down.

 

“That's never happened before,” admitted Mike, swallowing half his pint in one gulp. “The odd autograph, but never that.”

 

Greg nodded and sipped at his lemonade. “I'm just starting to realise how big this programme really is.”

 

Mike gestured to Greg's half-empty glass. “Get you another?”

 

Greg shook his head.

 

“No thanks, Mike. Heading home now. Are you definitely coming on Saturday?”

 

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss it for worlds. And the wife would never forgive me. Is everyone else coming?”

 

“Yeah. I haven't had a chance to confirm with Mycroft and Irene yet. Or Stella and Ethan but I will tomorrow.” Greg smiled. “It'll be nice to have everyone together socially before the filming starts. Anyway, see you tomorrow.”

 

“See you, mate.” Mike replied.

 

*

 

“Jim’s really looking forward to Saturday night,” Molly gushed. “He's even had his suit cleaned and I'm positive I saw him looking at tie tying tutorials on YouTube.”

 

Greg grinned and said “Just hang on for a second, just got to have a word with a couple of folks.”

 

He walked over to where Stella and Ethan were practising the rhumba.

 

“Can I interrupt? Are you still both coming Saturday?”

 

“Yes, Greg.No plus ones for either of us.” said Stella while Ethan sighed.

 

“World's longest dry streak, mate. Still, if the grub’s as good as what you produced the other day it'll be great.”

 

“I'll try my best,” said Greg drily.

 

He spoke to Irene when they all stopped for a break. 

 

“Yes, Greg. My partner and I are really looking forward to it.”

 

“Great. Thanks.”

 

Greg felt unaccountably nervous when he approached Mycroft who was stretching out his long frame and practically tucking his foot behind his ear.

 

“Er, Mycroft. Just seeing if you'll be coming on Saturday and if you'll be coming alone.”

 

Mycroft straightened up and smiled at Greg.

 

“Yes, I'll be there. Will it be okay if I bring someone? Someone who would truly appreciate your cooking?”

 

Greg's heart sank into his feet.

 

“Of course,” he mumbled and walked away, another sweet dream burned to ashes before it could be realised.

 

After that, the rehearsal went rapidly downhill.

 

“It's a waltz, for fuck’s sake!” he snarled, furious with himself. “I should be able to do this!” He looked at Molly who looked upset and mentally kicked himself. “I'm sorry, Molly but I just can't get it.”

 

“If I may,” said a voice. “I think I may know where you might be going wrong.”

 

Mycroft. He stood there as composed as ever.

 

“Molly, will you stand aside for a moment?” he asked. Molly obliged and Mycroft stepped close to Greg. 

 

He took Greg's right hand in his left and put his other hand on Greg's shoulder, drawing him close.

 

“Your posture is all wrong,” murmured Mycroft. His hand left Greg's shoulder and he let Greg’s other hand drop. Mycroft walked behind Greg and Greg felt Mycroft's hands on his shoulders.

 

“Straighten up and tighten your core,” breathed a voice in his ear. Greg did so and felt Mycroft's hand slide round to his stomach. His touch made the hairs on the back of Greg's neck stand up and also made him deeply glad for the baggy sweatpants he was wearing, so visceral was his reaction to being touched by someone he desired.

 

“Nice and tight. Good. Try and stay as straight as you can and we will try that again. Keep your head up, Greg.”

 

Greg obeyed as Mycroft positioned himself in Molly's place again.

 

“Ready? One, two, three.”

 

As they waltzed around the rehearsal room Greg couldn't believe the contrast as he caught sight of himself and Mycroft in the mirror. Instead of looking like a giraffe with piles he looked graceful, even coordinated, mostly, Greg knew, due to the man in his arms.

 

They completed one circumnavigation of the room before Greg twirled Mycroft on the spot and released him with a bow.

 

“Thank you,” he said. He had never been more sincere about anything in his life. Mycroft smiled, a hint of pink creeping into his cheeks.

 

“You just needed a little more confidence, Greg. Molly can take it from here.”

 

“That was incredible,” Molly confessed. “If you and Mycroft were a team, no one could beat you.”

 

“How do you mean?” Greg asked, still a little dazed from having such intimate contact with Mycroft.

 

“Pure chemistry,” said Molly sagely. “You'd set the stage alight. You two are all meaningful glances and yearning, especially when the other one isn't looking.”

 

Greg laughed it off as they got on with the rehearsal but what Molly had said echoed in his mind as he drove home.

 

He decided to discuss it with his best friend who would listen to any old nonsense as long as he brought apples.

 

“Molly seems to think he likes me.” Greg told Nancy as she munched on a Golden Delicious. “I like him, I'll be honest. He's gorgeous. And when he touched me, well, I haven't got half a stalk on that quick since I was a teenager.”

 

Greg brooded a little more as Nancy had another apple.

 

“It should be perfect but if he likes me so much why is he bringing someone with him on Saturday?”.

 

Nancy excercised her right to remain silent on the matter.

  
  
  


TBC

 


	6. Chapter Six

“Where the  _ fuck  _ are the pine nuts?” Greg snarled. “Why can I never find  _ anything  _ in this fucking kitchen?”

 

John winced and carried on making the shortcrust as Greg stormed around the kitchen opening cupboards and slamming doors.

 

John had read somewhere that food prepared often took on the atmosphere of the kitchen. If that were true John hoped that Greg's handpicked guests had a fondness for the bitter and the tart.

 

John couldn't understand it. Greg had been so happy recently. Energised. More like the kindly soul who had employed him, even with his spotty work record. And Greg had really been looking forward to the dinner party. 

 

Then he had come back from the last rehearsal with a face like thunder and everyone at the restaurant got the rough end of his tongue, warranted or not. John was quite pleased they had already agreed on the menu for tonight for talking to Greg, especially today, would be like volunteering to stick his head in the potato ricer.

 

He wrapped the pastry in clingfilm and tucked it in the fridge then decided he would check the stock rotation. Normally it was the most boring job in the restaurant but anything that kept him out of Greg's way for a while could be counted a blessing that day.

 

*

 

“Hurry  _ up _ , Mycroft! You're hardly going to make a good impression if we're late. And besides, I'm starving.”

 

Sherlock slung one elegant leg over the arm of the chair, wrinkling the material of his suit.

 

“The invitation was seven thirty for eight, little brother,” Mycroft reminded him as he finally emerged from the bedroom. “The Spoilt Pig isn't too far and the taxi shouldn't be long.”

 

Sherlock let out a long whistle of appreciation as he took in the elegant cut of Mycroft's suit.

 

“Paul Smith?”

 

“It seemed appropriate,” conceded Mycroft. “I do want Greg to see me in something other than rehearsal clothes.”

 

Sherlock resisted the impulse to tease as Mycroft looked anxious enough already.

 

“I don't blame you. Greg Lestrade is sex on two legs, brother. The entire string section used to watch his programme on the tour bus. Everyone fancied him.  I think he'd be incredibly good for you.”

 

“How did you manage to watch him on TV while I did not? It's only recently that I've had the privilege. And that was thanks to some unsung genius on YouTube.”

 

Sherlock grinned at his brother's mild indignation.

 

“We managed it because unlike you, brother mine, I didn't spend years freezing my unmentionables off in a Russian gulag.”

 

“Fair point, although the home of the Bolshoi was hardly a gulag. Well, not quite.” agreed Mycroft. Outside was the peep of a car horn. “Our chariot awaits. Shall we?”

 

*

 

Greg had handpicked the serving staff as the ones least likely to get starry eyed when faced with a bunch of celebrities so he was a bit taken aback when Susan, his Front of House, drew a battered paperback out of the pocket of her apron.

 

“What's that?” Greg asked.

 

“ It's  _ The Keys To The Underhill Palace. _ ” Susan replied.”It was my favourite book when I was little and I was hoping Ms Adler might sign it for me.”

 

“Okay,” sighed Greg. “Just don't make a nuisance of yourself.”

 

She smiled brightly and tucked the book back in her pocket.

 

Greg could almost feel the release of tension and felt a bit ashamed. He must have been hell to work for the past few days and resolved to make it up to them. A bonus maybe. Extra time off. Something, anyway. It was hardly their fault that the man he hoped might be something more than a friend wasn't interested and was bringing someone else.

 

“They should all be arriving soon. I'll be in the kitchen warming up the starters. Any problems, give me a shout.”

 

He retreated into the warmth and security of his favourite environment and stirred a pot on the stove.

 

“Sorry for being an utter shit,” he apologized. 

 

“It's not like you,” agreed John. “Anything you want to tell me?”

 

“Not really. I just had a severe disappointment, that's all. Shouldn't be taking it out on you lot though.”

 

“Fair enough. Hadn't you better go and change? I've got it from here unless you want to do the meet and greet in your kitchen whites.” John reminded him.

 

“Shit. I'll...yeah…”

 

John smiled to as Greg vanished upstairs.

 

*

 

“They're all here,” said John sternly. “It's you they've come to see. Now get in there and make nice.”

 

Greg looked around him for an escape route but found it blocked by his grinning sous chef who stood there with his arms folded.

 

“You look incredible. Now go.”

 

Defeated, Greg fixed on his professional smile and walked into the restaurant.

 

“Hey, there you are!” Mike greeted him warmly. “This is my wife, Louise.”

 

Greg smiled at the woman and mumbled something, moving over to where Molly was standing with her partner.

 

“Hi Greg,” she said, beaming with pleasure. “Your place is absolutely gorgeous! Oh, this is my partner Jim.”

 

Greg shook hands with the dapper man at Molly's side.

 

“Jim Moriarty. Nice to meet you, Greg. Molly's been looking forward to this for ages.” said Jim, his warm Irish accent and twinkling brown eyes negating the image of the stuffy maths teacher.

 

“I hope you enjoy it,” said Greg, his sore heart warmed by their enthusiasm yet he could not keep his eyes off Mycroft and his stunning companion.

 

Theorising that it might be less painful to have his dreams crushed now rather than later, Greg left Molly and Jim and made his way over to them.

 

“Hello, Greg.” Mycroft's welcome was warm and enthusiastic. And he looked sensational in that designer suit, the cornflower blue of his shirt making his aquamarine eyes even more vivid. His companion was watching them dispassionately. Probably desperate to get Mycroft alone to ravish him, the bastard, thought Greg savagely.

 

“Hi, Mycroft. Lovely to see you.”

 

“This is my brother, Sherlock. Oh, dear. Greg are you all right?”

 

Greg spluttered, pretended to cough and hoped that his traitorous heart would keep beating.

 

“The violinist? Hello. It's nice to out s face to the name. Greg Lestrade. I  _ do  _ hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”

 

“Mycroft keeps going on about you and what a wonderful chef you are, Greg. When he told me about tonight I insisted he bring me as his plus one.”

 

Mycroft smiled at his brother and there was another smile for Greg, one that heated him all the way to his toes.

 

“That's great. If you'll excuse me, I'll just see how things are doing in the kitchen.”

 

John looked up from where he was arranging the antipasti on the plates to see his boss bearing down on him with the biggest grin on his face and engulfing him in a bearhug.

 

“He's come with his brother!” Greg exclaimed and with that cryptic utterance Greg waltzed out again leaving John to check his ribs for cracks.

 

*

 

The starters had been consumed with relish and Greg poured more wine out for Irene, who he was sitting next to, and her wife, Kate.

 

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, there was a lot of lighthearted chat going on and Mycroft's brother seemed to be working all his charm on Stella who looked extremely flattered.

 

“Have you thought about doing another cookbook, Greg?” Irene asked as their plates were cleared away.

 

“There would be quite a lot of interest if you did,” added Kate. “I'm in publishing, a nice rustic cookbook would fill a niche in the market.”

 

“Well, never say never,” admitted Greg. “I suppose you could discuss it with my agent.”

 

“Sally Donovan? She's brilliant, isn't she?”

 

“Yeah. She would have been here tonight but one of the kids is ill. Give her a ring though. Tell her you spoke to me and I might be interested.”

 

*

 

As the main courses were served, Sherlock nudged his brother.

 

“I understand your interest, Mycroft. I'd fancy anyone who made Potatoes Dauphinoise as good as this. And if his touch is as deft in the bedroom, you'll be a lucky man.”

 

Mycroft paused from trying to inhale his mushroom and chestnut pithivier. Truly, Greg was a genius.

 

“Don't be vulgar, little brother. I merely wish to cultivate his friendship. I doubt a man of Greg's worth would appreciate a rough wooing.”

 

Sherlock wasn't so sure, not after the evil looks Greg had given him when he had obviously mistaken Sherlock for Mycroft's date. If he was lucky, Mycroft could be in for a very passionate time as long as he made his intentions plain.

 

“Possibly. Just don't fuck it up like you usually do, okay?”

 

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's glare and turned his attention to the truly exquisite cassoulet on his plate.

 

*

 

It was drawing close to midnight. The majority of the guests had gone after giving Greg their effusive thanks and best wishes for the first round of the competition on the Monday.

 

Soon there was just Greg and Mycroft, Sherlock having taken off earlier pleading jetlag.They were sitting around in the comfortable reception area on a squashy sofa drinking coffee and nibbling on squares of home-made fudge while the staff cleaned up and righted the tables.

 

“Will Nancy still be awake?” Mycroft asked shyly. He had drunk just enough to be a little bit bold and a little bit flirtatious. Judging by the pleased smile on Greg's face he was doing something right.

 

“She's always ready to meet new people,” said Greg. “Especially if you bring food. Come through the kitchen and I'll grab her some fruit.”

 

Mycroft noticed how the surfaces of the kitchen gleamed and how everything had been neatly put away and the floor mopped which seemed incredible to him who caused mayhem every time he opened a tin of beans.

 

The staff who had waited on them so expertly were sitting round the table, a bottle of wine open on it and Mycroft held back as Greg thanked them for such excellent work and promised all of them a bonus. Mycroft liked the warm camaraderie between them all and sensed that the Spoilt Pig was a very happy place to work.

 

Greg acquired a couple of apples from the store cupboard and beckoned Mycroft out into the autumn night. Once outside it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Greg to take Mycroft's hand in his and hold it tight.

 

The ground could be a little treacherous out there and it wouldn't do for his guest to fall, now would it?

 

TBC

  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. RL has been kicking my arse recently.

Greg held very tightly to Mycroft's hand as he led him towards the outbuildings and smiled to himself in the dark when Mycroft returned the pressure. It really  _ was  _ uneven ground especially in the dark but they made it to the sty without incident. The sty was illuminated by the heaters high on the walls giving everything a rosy glow.

 

“This is Nancy,” said Greg proudly and smiled at Mycroft's surprise.

 

“She is, erm, a lot  _ bigger _ than I imagined.” Mycroft confessed.

 

“She's a Gloucester Old Spot. The sows can easily reach five hundred pounds.”

 

Disturbed by the voices and recognising the one she adored, Nancy got to her feet with a grunt and shambled over to the sty wall, her snout quivering in anticipation.

 

Mycroft breathed in the warm smell of fresh straw and contented pig and watched as Nancy nudged their still-joined hands.

 

“Give her an apple.” Greg urged, producing one from his pocket. Mycroft obliged, gingerly, smiling as it vanished in two bites. Nancy looked up at the two humans expectantly.

 

“Do you have another apple?” Mycroft asked. Greg handed it to him and Mycroft fed it to her. She then sat and gazed at the two men looking down at her.

 

“She likes you,” said Greg. “If she didn't, you'd be looking at her tail going back to bed now.”

 

“I'm flattered. Does she always stay in the sty?”

 

“No, in the warmer weather she spends most of her time in the orchard where she can root around to her heart's content. She's very happy here, the vet is impressed with how healthy she is and it's always nice to have someone to tell your troubles to that won't judge you too harshly. Isn't that right, darling?”

 

Nancy stood up again and came closer so Greg could scratch her behind one large ginger ear, closing her eyes and grunting softly with pleasure.

 

“You've definitely got a way with animals,” admitted Mycroft.

 

“That's why I could never imagine eating them. Nancy would have been forced to farrow until she was worn out and then slaughtered. How is that right? And not just her, all...urk”

 

Greg had to stop talking. Mycroft's kiss had effectively brought his rant to a close. Greg was just savouring the taste of the wine on Mycroft's lips when he pulled away.

 

“I've been longing to kiss you.” Mycroft admitted. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

 

Greg laughed and drew him close.

 

“Nothing that can't wait. If there's one thing that can make me lose my train of thought, it's a kiss.”

 

“That may be useful to know in the future,” grinned Mycroft. “Can I kiss you again?”

 

“Oh, yes.” Greg breathed.

 

Lips like warm silk against his. Closed mouths at first before an inadvertent touch on the skin of Greg's neck made his mouth part. Mycroft nibbled gently on Greg's bottom lip as Greg held him tight.

 

“You are incomparable,” whispered Mycroft. “I've dreamed of this.”

 

“I'm flattered. I've entertained a few filthy thoughts myself since I found out you're not the iceman you pretend to be.”

 

Mycroft smiled and nuzzled Greg's neck, not knowing that  _ that _ particular move could bring Greg to his knees.

 

“That's really good to know. I was unsure if you liked men, then I saw the way you looked at my brother tonight. You know, like you'd be happy to introduce him to your knife set. Intimately.”

 

Greg laughed and the rough, warm sound of it echoed round the sty.

 

“It's ridiculous being jealous at my age. Got to admit, I was bloody relieved when I found out who he was.”

 

Greg let go of Mycroft and frowned.

 

“You're shivering. How about a brandy at my place?”

 

“That would be lovely,” admitted Mycroft. “Is it far?”

 

“I've got a flat above the restaurant. Come on before we get hypothermia.”

 

“Goodbye Nancy,” said Mycroft.

 

“See you in the morning, darling.”added Greg.

 

*

 

Mycroft was surprised when Greg led him into his flat. He supposed he had expected something functional given the amount of time Greg seemed to spend at work and in rehearsals but the living room was filled with warm rich wood furniture and a thick Turkey carpet graced the floor. The walls were covered in framed photographs of exotic locations and animals. He smiled at one of a younger Greg holding a ginger piglet.

 

“Is that Nancy?” Mycroft asked.

 

Greg looked up from the table where he was pouring their brandies and grinned.

 

“Yes. Tiny little thing she was. I knew she was the one when I saw her knocking hell out of her siblings to get to the trough first.”

 

“These photos are incredible,” said Mycroft, moving in for a closer look.

 

“Can't take the credit for those.” Greg replied, his easy smile vanishing and Mycroft mentally kicked himself. “Kit was the photographer, not me. My partner.” Greg went on in answer to Mycroft's unasked question. “He died. Three years ago now. Massive heart attack. Nothing anyone could do.”

 

“I'm sorry,” said Mycroft. “It's a hideously inadequate to say but it looks like both of you had a wonderful life together. You must miss him.”

 

Greg sat down heavily on the couch and Mycroft joined him. Close, but not touching. Mycroft sensed it wouldn't be welcome at that point.

 

“Yeah. I try not to think about it too much or I end up trying to drown myself in cheap Shiraz. What about you. Mycroft. Any great love affairs you want to tell me about?”

 

Mycroft snorted. It was the most inelegant sound from the elegantly dressed man.

 

“You're confusing me with you, I think. No great love affairs mostly because I've always had such a nomadic lifestyle and ballet is fiendishly competitive, so your life revolved around practice after practice after audition after performance after practice.”

 

“Sounds lonely.”

 

“Very. Finding comfort with someone in the midst of all that was a miracle only too rare.”

 

“I've seen you dance. Professionally, I mean.” Greg admitted. “I'm honestly surprised anyone could keep their hands off you.”

 

Mycroft's smile was wicked.

 

“Have you been Googling me?”

 

“Just a bit. Loved you in  _ Swan Lake.  _ Bit of a cliché but you were poetry in motion.”

 

Greg smiled at the light blush his compliment had provoked.

 

“I'm still incredibly supple,” said Mycroft, his tone growing sultry. “Any time you'd like a private demonstration, though perhaps tonight might not be the perfect time.”

 

Bizarrely, Greg felt relieved but hoped for a bit of clarification.

 

“Not perfect, no. But…”

 

“You don't seem the type for a quick bunk-up, incredible though I know it would be,” explained Mycroft, his fingers twining with Greg's. “I'm not wrong, am I? And there's still the competition. Some might call it a conflict of interest.”

 

Greg smiled at how easily he had been deduced.

 

“You're right. I've never done casual. I've always needed something more than just attraction to sleep with someone. I'd like to court you, Mycroft Holmes, before I take you to bed. Treat you the way you deserve. Do whatever it takes to make you happy. I know that might sound a bit heavy but it's who I am.”

 

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand and looked deep into his bottomless brown eyes.

 

“I hope you still think I'm worth all that, Greg,once Irene and I have won  _ Strictly. _ ” 

 

“I can console you in your defeat,” laughed Greg, his eyes sparkling.

 

Honour satisfied, they laughed and Mycroft leaned in for a chaste goodnight kiss.

 

As they waited for the taxi that would take him back to Sherlock's house, Mycroft hugged him.

 

“Thank you for tonight and for being so honest. It bodes well for the future.”

 

“Yes it does,” agreed Greg.

 

The taxi pulled up and Mycroft got in.

 

“See you Monday. Nine sharp.”

 

Mycroft waved in reply and Greg went inside, locking the door behind him. He felt exhausted;emotional moments like those always drained him but the promise of a possible future with Mycroft was enough to make him smile throughout his nightly ritual of getting ready for bed.

 

He picked up the photo of Kit from his bedside table and looked at the laughing fair-haired man in the picture.

 

“I love you,” said Greg. “And I always will. I'm not trying to replace you but it's been three years and I think I deserve some happiness in whatever time I've got left. He's understanding. He gets me. If you need any more proof, Nancy likes him. Early days yet, but I'm hopeful.”

 

Greg put the picture back in its usual place and turned out the light.

 

TBC

  
  
  



	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the delay. My.muse for this tale buggered off for a while. Now they're back.

Sunday afternoons were a sacred time in the Spoilt Pig; new recipes didn't invent themselves and, as a restaurant that prided itself on using seasonal produce mostly, the need for a winter menu had become pressing.

 

Greg stood at the cooker busily stirring a pot while John was at another station slicing several different kinds of mushrooms with the neatness of a pathologist preparing specimens for analysis.

 

He handed the full green chopping board to Greg and watched in admiration as Greg turned a bunch of herbs, roots and fungi into something miraculous, going by the smell.

 

“I'm not sure whether to add double cream or créme fraîche,” said Greg with a frown. “It's quite earthy so maybe double cream will cut that a bit. Check the croutons, John, will you? They should be done.”

 

John opened the oven door and cast a professional eye over the contents.

 

“Golden brown and they smell sensational,” he commented as he hefted the trays out of the oven and placed them on the worktop. “They'll go great with the soup.”

 

“Good,” said Greg with a smile. “As my old teacher used to say ‘'When in doubt, add more garlic.’”

 

The kitchen door opened and Fiona, one of the waitresses who was helping set up for the dinner service, stuck her head round the door.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, Chef, but there's a couple of blokes here to see you.”

 

Greg frowned. He couldn't remember making any appointments for today and he didn't know anyone that would just drop by, not without sending a message at least.

 

“Who is it?” Greg asked, continuing to stir the pot.

 

“Two of the people who were here last night, Chef. “

 

Greg put his spoon in the rest and wiped his hands on the cloth he always kept tucked in his apron. He went through the kitchen door and stopped dead. Mycroft and his brother were in the dining room, Sherlock lounging against the wall and checking something on his phone. Mycroft smiled when he saw Greg.

 

“I do hope we're not interrupting,” he said.

 

“Hello,” said Greg, grinning like a loon. “I wasn't expecting to see you till tomorrow.”

 

“I honestly hoped you weren't busy,” Mycroft confessed. He glanced at Greg's kitchen whites and his expression became troubled. “But I see you are.”

 

“Trying out some new recipes,” said Greg. “Fancy being my guinea pig?”

 

“I'd be delighted.”

 

“Hey, me too.” Sherlock protested. “If I had to drive your decrepit form over here the least I deserve is some of Greg's salted caramel fudge.”

 

“I think we can arrange that,” smiled Greg. “This way.”

 

Greg ushered the brothers into his domain and smiled as they hung back a bit, unsure of where to put themselves. Meanwhile, John was eyeing the two visitors discreetly.

 

“John, this is Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.” Greg announced. John walked over and shook hands with both of them. “John is my sous chef.” Greg explained.

 

“Lovely to meet you both,” said John, his gaze lingering on Sherlock, wishing above anything that he wasn't wearing a pair of trousers that made him look like the Pied Piper.

 

“Likewise,” said Sherlock softly, a divine smile curving his mouth.

 

Greg beckoned Mycroft over to his stove.

 

“This is the new soup I'm trialling for the winter menu. Fancy a taste?”

 

“Oh, yes. It smells heavenly.” Mycroft replied.

 

Greg dipped a spoon into the pan and held it to Mycroft's lips.

 

“Careful, it's hot.” he cautioned.

 

Mycroft blew on the spoon to cool it, then sipped. His eyes widened with pleasure as he swallowed.

 

“That is incredible,” he enthused and Greg visibly swelled with pride. “Am I tasting cranberries? And wild garlic? Any chance of a bowlful?”

 

Greg smiled and leaned in to wipe a trace of soup from Mycroft's top lip.

 

“All you had to do was ask.”

 

John sighed theatrically and looked sideways at the tall man beside him who looked every bit as uncomfortable with the intimacy of the scene as he was.

 

“Fancy a coffee? It goes really well with Greg's fudge.”

 

“It's either that or scour my brain with bleach. The smell of middle-aged infatuation is suffocating. Thank you.”

 

John led Sherlock to where the staff took their breaks, knowing there was always fresh coffee and a selection of home-made treats waiting. 

 

John watched, amused, as Sherlock hoovered up a plateful of shortbread, downed his black coffee in two gulps and made a start on the fudge.

 

“He's incredible,” said Sherlock, when he finally paused long enough to draw breath. “I've never tasted anything so good.”

 

“Thanks,” said John with a wry smile. “It was actually me that made the shortbread.”

 

“I'm impressed. The lavender just gives it that extra  _ je ne sais quoi.  _ So, John. What do you do when you're not slaving over a hot stove?”

 

“That depends. Why are you asking?”

 

“Well,I'm heading off to Japan in a couple of weeks. I wondered if you'd like to go for a drink? That is, if you're not...shite, I'm terrible at this. Er…”

 

John took pity on him and patted his hand.

 

“Tomorrow is my night off actually. Do you know the Hanged Man?”

 

“Yes, it's not far from my house.”

 

“I'll meet you there at seven. Don't worry, Sherlock. You're not going to be treading on anyone's toes. Free as a bird, me.”

 

“I'm never sure...but there's something about you...honestly, I'm more articulate than this normally. Seven is fine. I'll look forward to it.”

 

*

 

Mycroft scraped the last of the soup onto his spoon.

 

“Oi, leave the pattern on the plate!” Greg teased, a broad grin on his face.

 

“Truly sensational, Greg. You deserve every cookery award in the world.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“It's too bad you're working tonight,” Mycroft went on. 

 

“Why? What did you have in mind?” Greg asked.

 

“A walk somewhere, maybe a drink in that lovely pub by the river with the big open fire. Take our minds off tomorrow.”

 

“Sounds absolutely perfect to me. Hold that thought.”

 

Greg hurried to where he knew John would be and smiled to himself when he saw him exchanging numbers with Mycroft's brother.

 

“Hey, Greg,” said John with a guilty start. “We were, um…”

 

“Eating all the shortbread? John, I need a favour. Can you hold the fort tonight?”

 

“Course. I still need tomorrow off though.”

 

“Yeah, that goes without saying. Tuesday as well, in fact. Deal?”

 

“Deal, boss. Now go and do what you need to.”

 

“I presume my brother won't be returning with me then?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I'll make sure he gets back safe and sound,” Greg promised. “We've got a big day tomorrow.”

 

“So have I,” said Sherlock, a hint of a secretive smile on his lips. “See you tomorrow, John.”

 

“Yeah, see you.”

 

Greg watched Sherlock walk out and grinned at his deeply uncomfortable sous chef.

 

“Swift work, John. I'm impressed.”

 

John smiled at his boss.

 

“I'm bloody astounded. Still, I wasn't going to say no, was I?”

 

“Not if you had any sense. I'll see you on Wednesday. Thanks again, mate.”

 

With that, Greg hurried back to tell Mycroft the good news.

 

*

 

Half an hour later he was walking hand in hand with Mycroft along the towpath of the river. The only sounds were the flow of the water around the rocks and the scuffing of their feet on the path.

 

It was a very companionable silence and Greg felt as though he could have walked forever with Mycroft's warm hand clutching his own through the leather of their gloves.

 

The Anglers Arms stood on a bend in the river, warm light spilling from its windows.

 

Greg let go of Mycroft's hand with real regret as they went inside.

 

“Why don't you grab a seat by the fire and I'll get the drinks?” Mycroft murmured. “Any preference?”

 

“Why don't you choose?” Greg answered.

 

The battered sofa in front of the fire was free and creaked as Greg lowered himself into it. Minutes later Mycroft joined him, slipping off his coat and unwinding his scarf from his neck.

 

“The barman is bringing the drinks,” said Mycroft. “He's having a bit of trouble with the corkscrew.”

 

Just then the barman appeared with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Mycroft handed him a twenty-pound note and insisted he keep the change.

 

The wine was full-bodied and fruity and Greg felt it warming him nicely, along with the fire.

 

They chatted about inconsequential things, the places they'd been to, books and films and finding lots of common ground. Greg announced his love for jazz and Mycroft groaned which made them both laugh and help themselves to more wine.

 

“This is lovely,” said Mycroft softly. “I don't think there's anywhere else in the world I'd rather be right now.”

 

Greg twined his fingers with Mycroft's.

 

“Me neither,” he confessed. He took another drink of wine. “I really like spending time with you, Mycroft. You're quite unlike anyone I've ever met.”

 

“I take it that's a compliment,” teased Mycroft, his eyes sparkling in the firelight.

 

“It is,” Greg agreed, lifting their joined hands; his covered in the nicks, scratches and cuts that declared his profession, Mycroft's soft and pale and dropped a kiss on it.

 

“Whatever happens this week, I'm glad to have met you, Mycroft.”

 

“I don't care anymore what happens.” Mycroft said. “If not for this competition our paths would likely never have crossed. That would have been the real tragedy, Greg. I feel that you and I have been lonely for far too long.”

 

“Then let's fix that,” said Greg, suddenly feeling reckless. “Come home with me tonight. Let's see if we can find our own rhythm.”

 

Mycroft's expression was direct.

 

“If you're sure, there is nothing I'd like more.”

 

“I'm sure.” Greg confirmed.

 

“Then let's go.” said Mycroft

  
  



End file.
